Everything Ends in Disaster
by Cherry Champagne
Summary: Crappy short fic about Craig being late for a phone call. Creek.


Claimer: Actually I do own South Park. Didn't you know?

A/N: I don't know shit on the Army; I just drew Craig in a li'l soldier's uniform and had this idea.

7:32.

It was 7:32 and Crag was not yet on the phone. If the recipient of his daily 7:30 call was a typical person, there would be no worries about the excess two minutes gone without communication. But of course, he wasn't. And because he wasn't, it was elevated from no worries to megadisaster. Typical.

There were three phones on the compound, but instead of allowing everyone to use any free phone, for some stupid reason, they were each assigned one they were allowed to use within a few specified hours. And to be sure to keep the world safe by not allowing someone to use the wrong goddamn phone, they were each given a card to swipe before dialing.

Craig lounged on the under stuffed couch, trying to glare whoever the hell seemed to find it necessary to talk for ten minutes of everyone else's time into a coma, to no avail. Just five feet off, so he could make a dash as soon as he heard the typical goodbye regimen being listed off.

7:33.

Craig's finger had been up for three minutes now, facing the boy's back. He used language that made Craig think he may be talking to his girlfriend. _Good on him. Just don't talk into MY TIME_.

Deciding it was enough, Craig stood with a little difficulty from the low, saggy couch, spun the other boy around by his shoulder, grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. The look on his face was mildly terrified, but he continued to cling to the phone, still held as if he could speak into it.

"Hang up the fucking phone." Craig said firmly, ignoring the fact that the boy couldn't reach the cradle from the position he held him in. He chose instead to drop the phone. Good enough. Craig let him go, causing him to slam to the ground (crap reflexes,) and picked up the phone, tapped the cradle's button once, then set about dialing the most familiar number to him.

It only rang half a time before someone shouted "CRAIG?" into the receiver.

"Yeah, sorry, some JACKASS" he flipped off the other boy, who was in the process of scampering away, "was hogging the stupid phone."

"Craig, Jesus Christ--gaha—I was so worried! I-I thought you'd be bombed or shot or eaten or captured or set on fire or—"

If Craig didn't interrupt, Tweek could've gone on forever with a list of bad things that could possibly happen. "Where are you?" The usual blare of CNN didn't sound from the background of the call. Tweek NEVER turned off CNN—not since Craig had been deported.

"At the airport, gahh."

"…" The sheer stupidity of the answer caused Craig to face-palm. "WHY are you at the airport, Tweek?"

"Well, I thought—errgh—I-I'd go to Iraq and see if I could find you…"

If Craig had removed his face from his palm, he would have placed it there again. "Tweek…what would—how the fuck did you get to the airport in three minutes anyway?"

"Gah!"

"No, no, nevermind—how did you intend to FIND me once you got to Iraq? Do…do American planes even FLY to Iraq?"

"It's just the Shitty Airline."

"Yeah, they do suck, but that doesn't answer my que—OH the City Airline." Which was still in business, surprisingly, due to the fact that they'd fly you anywhere, with minimal notice and no questions asked. "Tweek what the fuck YOU were gonna fly with that guy? He doesn't even know how to fly that piece of shit! I thought you had your airplane-o-phobia or whatever?"

"Yeah, but…but I didn't know where you were! I thought—I thought you were--!"

Craig felt a surge of guilt at the heavy, wet sound in Tweek's voice. God damn little pussy. "Tweek, I'm okay. I promise, somehow, I'll stay safe for you, okay?"

"…"

"You just wait. I'll be back before you know it."

"Craig, why'd you have to do this?" He sniffled.

"I…I dunno." Lord knows he regretted it. Not for himself—what he regretted was the stress it caused his stupid fucking paranoid Tweek. "Just go home, okay Tweeker?"

"Yeah, I really didn't want to fly anyway…"

In the distance of the call he heard "Hey! Whaddabout my fitty dorrar!?"

"OH SHIT HE'S GONNA KUNG FU ME!" Craig knew that the City Wok guy would not, in fact, "kung fu" an eighteen year old kid due to him retracting his promise of fitty dorrar, but he couldn't stop whatever caused the loud crash on the other end and the line to go dead.

"Tweek? Tweek, goddamn it!" He slammed the phone down, then picked it back up and dialed again.

"The number you have dialed is out of service…" The automatic lady informed him.

He slammed the phone down again and flipped it off. But still, he couldn't help the shit-eating grin that raped his face at the familiarity of it all. Oh well. By tomorrow he'd have another cell. He always did.

--

A/N: I feel so bad for Tweek in this. ;-; Can you imagine how stressed out that would make him? Anywayz, I get fifty cents to help battle my cancer every time someone reviews. Not really, but pretend I do. ;3


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